"Delilah," Leila looked up from her worship of Mary-Constance, "I don't believe you ever see in people anything but the way they look."
"I don't, duckie. To me—you are a sort of family art gallery. I hang you up in my mind, and you make a rather nice little collection."
Barry, coming in, caught up her words, with something of his old vivacity.
"The baby belongs to the Dutch school—with that nose."
There was a chorus of protest.
"She looks like you," Delilah told him. "Except for her nose, she's a Ballard. There's nothing of her father in her, except her beautiful disposition."
She flashed a challenging glance at Gordon. He stiffened. Such women as Delilah Jeliffe might have their place in the eternal scheme of femininity, but he doubted it.
"She is a Ballard even in that," he said, formally; "it is Constance whose disposition is beyond criticism, not mine."
"And now that you've carried off Constance, you're going to take Barry," Delilah reproached him.
Leila dropped the baby's hand.